His disease The eternal prejudice Towards the unknown Changed his life Into a nightmare So capable of drinking The wine of monotony And demanding an Honorable death next to His generation All they offered him Was the drink of slander His personal stigmata The cry was fake But so frightening His spirit wasn't there When the steel entered his body They will continue to Desecrate his grave until Dust is the only remain But he isn't there, he is nowhwere The martyr had stopped before It (really started)